


The Night of the Mint Condition

by dracsmith



Category: The Adventures of Brisco County, Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-06
Updated: 2010-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracsmith/pseuds/dracsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unusual error coin is the clue to a secret scheme involving the Carson City Mint and Miguelito Loveless. Minor crossover with Brisco County.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night of the Mint Condition

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in THE WILD WILD FANZINE.

"Not _more_ of these, James, please," groaned Artemus Gordon.

 

West handed him a thick stack of glossy sheets of paper, each with an enlarged drawing of a coin, front and back. "C'mon, Artie, we're going to see Richmond tomorrow, we may as well do our homework."

 

"Hrmph," said Gordon. "We wouldn't have so much homework to do if they didn't keep changing the designs on the coins so often! Look at all these different templates! How are we supposed to keep up with this stuff?"

 

"We wouldn't have any homework at _all_ if people didn't keep trying to counterfeit these things," said West, tapping the sheet he was studying. "Then we wouldn't have _jobs_ either, now would we, Mr. Treasury Agent?"

 

"I hate it when you're right," sighed Artie. He reached for the next sheet, studyiing the new design and committing it to memory. "I suppose it could be worse. Think how dull it would be if the currency went unchanged decade after decade."

 

"Mm-hmm," Jim agreed.

 

******

 

 

Next morning they entered Colonel Richmond's office bright and early. Their boss greeted them cheerfully. "All right, boys," he said, "let's see how well you've kept up on those templates we send you." He tossed a bright silvery object to West, who plucked it easily out of the air and held it close to study.

 

"Very suspicious," said West, handing it to his partner. "Wouldn't you say, Artie?"

 

"Um," his partner agreed, pulling out a loupe and examining the coin in detail. "But it's authentic. A spectacular error. Liberty seated left, with olive branch. . . ."

 

"Exactly," said West. He turned to Richmond. "I know mistakes can happen, sir, but how did a coin with the standard silver dollar reverse and the new _trade dollar_ obverse ever make it out of the Mint?"

 

Richmond beamed. "I see you gentlemen have been doing your homework." He held his hand out to Gordon and "ahem'd" loudly.

 

Artie looked up from his intent study. "Oh," he said sheepishly, handed the coin back and dropped the loupe back into his vest pocket. "I'm sure you also noted the bag marks, sir," he added.

 

Richmond looked startled. "No, I didn't." He scrutinized the coin more carefully and spotted the characteristic tiny nicks and scrapes left on the surface by the edges of other coins. "Come to think of it, you're right. That complicates matters a great deal."

 

West began working out the significance of Artie's observation. "Bag marks mean that this coin came out in a bag with the regular lot of coins for the day. It wasn't smuggled out individually by a single insider concocting 'fantasy pieces' for collectors. Somehow it was not only struck, but passed through inspection. We've got a serious operation going on here."

 

Richmond nodded gravely. "Yes, I'm afraid you're right. James, I've requisitioned the personnel files from the Mint and I need you to go through them. I know you've got a sense for these things. Look through the recent hires, see what your nose tells you. There's got to be something suspicious there somewhere." West nodded. He wasn't fond of this sort of paperwork, but sometimes it needed to be done.

 

"What about me, sir?"

 

"I'm sending you into the lion's den, Artemus," said Richmond. "These pieces must have a market; someone's got to be fencing them. We're going to set you up as an unscrupulous dealer, someone who wants to buy unique goodies for customers who ask no questions. Try to get to the top man on the outside, and maybe we'll be able to backtrack to his inside connection."

 

"No sooner said than done," said Artemus with a grin.

******

 

 

 

The sign on the door said, "Herbert Incuse, Numismatics and Rarities." Artemus Gordon, costumed as a well-dressed businessman with just a hint of the shyster, entered boldly. A tall, broad-shouldered man rose quickly from behind a desk littered with coins, reference books, and magnifying glasses.

 

"What do you want? I'm very busy," he said impatiently.

 

Artemus sized him up. This man did not fit the common numismatic stereotype; he was no stoop-shouldered academic or timid recluse. He moved with the easy grace and contained power of the athlete. Artemus filed him under "dangerous" and proceeded with caution.

 

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said ingratiatingly, with a strong Bostonian accent. "My name is Emil Planchet and I may be best described as a numismatic _entrepreneur_. Collectors tell me what they want, and, well," he shrugged modestly, "I find it. I have a number of clients who are bored with what's commonly available on the market. They have the usual rarities--errors, misstrikes, recalls, small runs--but they're just not satisfied."

 

"Some people are hard to please," said Incuse, flatly; his voice betrayed no particular interest.

 

Artemus went on. "I'd heard rumors about some really unusual novelty items and, to tell you the truth, I didn't believe them." He pulled the coin Richmond had given him out of his pocket, holding it carefully by the edges and turning it this way and that. "Then I got this."

 

Incuse came out from behind the desk and grabbed it from him. "Where did you get this?"

 

"I'd rather not say. . . " Incuse seized him by the lapels and lifted him off the floor.

 

"I said, WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?"

 

Gordon sputtered and spoke with convincing reluctance. "A dealer in California. He handles things that aren't usually available through, uh, approved channels, and he doesn't ask any questions about where they come from. I said I wouldn't give out his name--oof!--All right, he's Luis Javelina."

 

Incuse nodded slowly and let Artemus down. "Maybe the two of us can do a little business," said Incuse. "I'm in a position to offer some remarkable items, but only to men who pay good prices. . . and ask no questions." He reseated himself at his desk.

 

"I assure you, sir," said Artemus, gathering his dignity and straightening his tie, "I can fulfill both of those criteria."  He opened his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers. "For instance, I know a man who's willing to go to . . . several figures for a two-headed strike in proof condition."

 

"Proof?" Incuse pulled at his lower lip. "As you know, that requires a special polishing of the dies. Moreover, the coin must be struck not once but twice. It could be risky for the man on the inside. I'm not sure that can be arranged for less than five figures." He gestured to a chair and Artemus seated himself.

 

Artemus nodded. "So long as it _can_ be arranged, I'm happy to bargain for a price." He paused and added offhandedly, "This man on the inside must be mighty well-placed."

 

"You could say that," said Incuse casually. "Now, shall we get down to business? I need to know just how far this client of yours is prepared to go."

 

"Well," Artemus said, "as a starting point, I should mention the auction last summer in New York, when a similar piece was sold for. . . well, I'm sure you recall the sale."

 

"Yes, I do," said Incuse. "But _that_ price, let us recall, was for a piece in 'brilliant uncirculated' condition. Your client is surely aware that 'proof' is at least an order of magnitude above that."

 

"As my client is aware," admitted Artemus. "I'm instructed, therefore, to make a preliminary offer of--"

 

He broke off as the door burst suddenly open and a man came running in, chest heaving, clutching a piece of paper.

 

 Incuse rose and glowered at the intruder. "Stubbins, what do you mean barging in here like this?"

 

Out of breath, the man handed him the paper and gasped. "Sorry, sir, but this just came in at the telegraph office. They said it was urgent."

 

Incuse read the message swiftly. Frowning, he handed the paper back to the messenger. "They were right," he said. The man nodded and left. Artemus looked up at Incuse, only to find the dealer looking down with a cold, calculating eye.

 

***

 

 

West pulled out another file and grimaced down at it. A huge stack had been delivered about noon and he had spent the whole afternoon reading through them. So far he had found nothing definitely, although one recent hire named Bauer showed some minor inconsistencies. He supposed it might be worth checking out, and was just reaching for the telegraph when it began chattering. He got a pencil to write down the short message, realized what it was and gasped. Firing off a quick acknowledgement, he grabbed his hat and jacket and headed for the door.

 

The sheet left behind on the table by the telegraph read simply: JAVELINA'S COVER BLOWN.

 

 

***

 

 

Incuse smiled at Artemus Gordon, now tied to his chair. "I ask you again, Mr. Gordon, who you are really working for. Since I have just heard from my men in California that Luis Javelina is a spy for the federal government, I suspect that you are as well. My men failed to capture him, but you are not so fortunate. I want to know how much the government knows and how close they are to making an arrest. Tell me what I wish to know or I will have you killed." Artemus shook his head. "That is your final answer?" Artemus nodded. "Very well," said Incuse. He pressed a button and several men in laborers' clothing came in from a door behind the desk. He addressed their leader, a big man in a cloth cap. "The alley, I think. And make it quiet."

 

The man grunted in acknowledgement. "Oh," added Incuse, "and when you're done, I'll want you to take a message. Merino needs to know that the feds are getting close."

 

******

 

As he made his way toward Incuse's office, West heard the sounds of a scuffle from the alley down the street. He increased his speed and came around the corner at a rapid trot. At the far end he could make out the shapes of several men in the darkness, and recognized immediately that Artie was their target. The silver glint of a knife flashed briefly and he thought he heard a muffled cry as he sped down the alley.

 

West launched himself into the middle of the group, easily blocking and dodging the blows that came his way. He kicked a knife from one man's hand and knocked a gun from another's. After several of his punches had connected solidly, his adversaries picked themselves up and ran away down the alley. West knelt beside the still figure that lay huddled on the ground. "Artie?"

 

"Jim?"

 

"C'mon," West said, taking his partner's shoulder as if to help him up. Gordon shook his head.

 

"No. . . don't move me. Make bleeding worse." West looked down and saw that Artie's hand was clamped tightly against his side, with blood seeping between his fingers.

 

"Knife?" West asked, remembering the glint of steel he'd seen. Artie nodded. "I'll get a doctor. I'll be right back. Hold on."

 

"Wait," whispered Artie. "Got to tell you. . . I think I heard the name of the inside contact. It's Merino."

 

"Merino," West repeated. Gordon nodded.

 

West tore back out into the street and turned to where he remembered seeing a doctor's sign before. His heart froze as he reached the storefront. The sign was old, the window broken, the office empty.

 

"Sorry, mister," said a man leaning against a nearby post. "We ain't had no doctor here since old Doc Evans died."

 

"No doctor?" West repeated. "What do people do?"

 

"We got a midwife does some first aid, but she's over to Pritchard's delivering a baby. When folks need more'n that, they go over to White Pond, 'bout ten miles east of here." West did some quick calculating. Artie would not survive the trip, and he could bleed to death by the time West got back with the doctor--assuming the doctor was free and could be persuaded to come.

 

"That's all?" West asked. "You don't have a _curandero_ , or a medicine man. . . "

 

The man was greatly amused by the question. "Mebbe you want one o' them Chinee fellers to stick knitting needles in ya." At the sudden rage in West's eyes he backed down. "I'm sorry, mister, didn't mean to make fun. But we got nobody."

 

West nodded. His mind was racing. Artie himself probably had more medical knowledge than anyone around; maybe he could tell West what needed to be done, at least get him patched up well enough to get back to the train. If he was still conscious. . . if he was still alive. West came around the corner into the alley and stopped. The alley was empty. He stood for a moment, puzzled. Was he in the wrong place? He walked to where he'd left Artie and knelt, looking closely at the ground. Blood. This was the right place. Where was Artie?

 

A sound made him look up.  His previous adversaries were back with reinforcements; three men stood at each end of the alley, cutting off any escape. West looked around him. There was no cover of any kind and nowhere to go.

 

"Are you ready to die, Mr. West?" one of them asked. Another laughed. West set himself and prepared for their attack. They moved closer slowly, drawing out the moment. Then he saw one of them give the signal, and they threw themselves at him as one.

 

There were simply too many of them in too confined a space for a coordinated assault. West defended himself ably against the initial onslaught, then went on the offensive. The alley was soon littered with his groaning opponents. He counted three down when two of them grabbed him from behind. He allowed his weight to sink backward and was about to use them to balance on while he kicked the man in front of him when he felt the guns pressed into his back. "You've had your fun, Mr. West," said the man in front of him. He too drew a gun and stroked the inlaid grip for a moment, turning it over and over in his hands. "Time's up," he said. He aimed the gun at West, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

 

A curious whirring sound filled the alley. Startled, the men looked around. Suddenly the ground immediately underneath West gave way and he fell from their grasping hands into darkness.

 

West landed hard, rolling to absorb the impact. He estimated he had fallen no more than ten feet. Picking himself up, he saw a trap door silently closing above him. A narrow staircase led up to the door on one side; fortunately he had missed hitting any of its sharp edges. He could hear the startled voices of the men in the alley above him, then heard them running away. He retrieved his hat from a corner where it had fallen.

 

He turned to look around him. As his eyes grew accustomed to the low light he saw that he was in a large room, well-appointed, lined with shelves of leatherbound books. Comfortable chairs stood on a plush oriental rug in the center of the room. A fire burned low in a grate off to one side, and as he looked, his heart gave a great leap. A low couch had been pushed close to the fire, with a plain wooden chair beside it. A shiny metal table stood beside the chair; on it lay a surgical needle and thread, a roll of bandages and a scissors, a sponge and a basin. And Artemus Gordon was lying on the couch, his shirt cut open to reveal a neat bandage around his middle.

 

West crossed the room quickly and sat beside the couch. "Artie!"

 

Artie opened his eyes. "Jim!"

 

"Artie, thank God!" West took his friend's hand. "What is this place? They told me there was no doctor in town."

 

Artemus nodded, his eyes closing again. "James, you have to get out of here."

 

"What? I just found you. I can't leave you like this."

 

Artie seemed to be fighting drowsiness and West noticed an empty syringe on the table; whoever had treated him had apparently given him a painkiller. "Jim," he said indistinctly, "this place . . . . is the headquarters. . . . of, of Doctor. . . "

 

"Dr. Miguelito Loveless, at your service," a voice completed crisply. West turned to see that very man entering the room, followed by his lovely assistant Antoinette, who was carrying a stack of blankets.

 

West laid Artie's hand back down--his friend seemed to have fallen asleep--and crossed the room to stand before his old adversary. Antoinette stepped neatly around both of them and took the blankets over to the couch, where she began to cover the sleeping agent.

 

James West removed his hat and spoke without a trace of the irony that often flavored his conversations with the mad doctor. "Dr. Loveless, before we begin our usual exchange of threats and invective, there is something I would like to say."  He looked down at the floor for a moment, feeling awkward. "I don't know why you saved Artemus' life, but I'm grateful you did." He extended his right hand. "Thank you."

 

Loveless met his eyes and took his hand. "You're welcome, Mr. West." For a moment they stood, then Loveless withdrew his hand, shrugged, and added, "Any second-rate hack would have done. It wasn't that serious - more of a gash than a puncture wound." He walked over to the couch, turned down the blanket and checked the bandage, lifting Gordon's wrist to take his pulse. Apparently satisfied, he laid Artie's hand back down and pulled the blanket back up, almost gently.

 

West watched with growing curiosity. Loveless disliked Gordon at least as much as he disliked West - possibly more, since he finally seemed to have noticed that it was usually Artie's brains that uncovered his plots.

 

West said, "There _was_ no 'hack' available, second-rate or otherwise. He would have died if you hadn't come along."

 

"I have my reasons," said Loveless. "For one thing, I'm a very jealous enemy." He pouted. "I would very much resent being deprived of the pleasure of killing you and Mr. Gordon myself." He gestured to West to take one of the wingback chairs in the center of the room and seated himself in another. Antoinette began clearing away the medical equipment from the table beside the couch. Loveless addressed himself to West. "Much as I dislike you both, Mr. West, I am forced to admit your good fortune and excellent judgment in choosing a colleague who is both competent and loyal. I, unfortunately, have recently had the opposite experience."

 

" _You're_ the man who planted someone at the Mint," West said. "From the mess he's gotten into, I didn't think he was smart enough to pull this off by himself."

 

"Perceptive as always, Mr. West," Loveless cackled, highly pleased. "Not only is he stupid, but incompetent and disloyal as well."

 

"Then you didn't plant him there to generate error coins."

 

"Of course not! I wouldn't stoop to such peccadilloes." Loveless dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. "Besides, it's a self-defeating proposition. The chief value of errata lies in their rarity; mass production destroys that value.

 

"Oh no, Mr. West, you know that I operate on a much grander scale. The original error coins were only a test, generated merely to ensure that my operative could get substandard coinage to pass out of one of the Mints." He rubbed his hands together. "I intended to debase the currency of the United States by decreasing the gold and silver content of the entire output of the Mints."

 

West drew in a sharp breath. Loveless threw back his head and laughed. "Unfortunately," Loveless continued, "now that he's made such a fool of himself I want him out of there before this business blows up in his face--and mine. That's where you come in."

 

West turned over the situation in his mind. "You want me to arrest him. You're going to betray your confederate in the hopes of saving your own miserable skin."

 

"You have an excellent grasp of the situation." Loveless beamed. "Take some of the local constabulary with you and have the man thrown in jail. You may as well arrest the ringleader of the collectors while you're at it. I don't mind."

 

"Thank you so much," West said.

 

"Don't mention it."

 

"What makes you think I"ll do this for you?"

 

Loveless allowed his gaze to drift to the other side of the room. Antoinette was calmly doing needlepoint near the couch where Artemus lay sleeping. "We don't really have to go into all the ugly details, do we, Mr. West? I'm willing to promise Mr. Gordon's safe return at the successful completion of your mission."

 

So that explained why he'd kept Artie alive--to use him as a hostage. West sighed. "All right. what's the man's name?"

 

"Bauer. He was hired on--"

 

"--October 16," West interrupted. "I thought there was something fishy about his file."

 

"I'll have to be more careful in the future," Loveless said, impressed. "Bauer will be meeting with Incuse and some others at the old stable on the west side of town tomorrow night at 8 p.m. They'll be making an exchange; you should be able to catch them red-handed."

 

West nodded, his mind working rapidly. Bauer was in fact the name of the man with the suspicious file, but Artie had given him the name Merino. Now, one man working alone probably could not accomplish Loveless' scheme. Merino was probably planted deeper inside a long time ago, perhaps in the final inspections or quality control office; since Merino was untouched by Bauer's fiasco, Loveless probably wanted him left in place. Which meant Loveless planned to try again. . . . "It seems for once that our interests coincide, Dr. Loveless. Knowing your methods, I'm sure that there is no direct evidence linking you to this plot, and I'll have to be satisfied with capturing Bauer and Incuse. Now, how do I get out of here?"

 

"Antoinette will show you out." West walked over to where she was sitting. He looked down at his partner and then back to Loveless.

 

Loveless answered the unspoken question. "I've given you my word, Mr. West. As long as you keep your side of the bargain, your friend will be in the best of hands." He shrugged. "Safer than in one of your barbaric hospitals, anyway."

 

_He's probably right about that_ , West thought. He felt oddly reassured; Loveless might be a madman, but he had a strict code of honor.

 

Antoinette put aside her needlework and rose gracefully. "This way, Mr. West," she said, and led him out the way she and Loveless had come in.

 

Loveless watched them leave, then went over to the writing desk and took up pen and paper. "Merino," he began writing. "Accompany Bauer to the meeting tomorrow night. After Bauer's been arrested, kill James West." He signed with a flourish. "Aha, Mr. West," he said aloud, "I never guaranteed _your_ safety."

 

******

 

Loveless stood over Gordon, arms folded across his chest. "Up! That's an order!"

 

Artie pulled himself painfully to a sitting position and glared at Loveless. "Are you trying to kill me?" he gasped.

 

"On the contrary, you ungrateful reprobate, I'm seeing to your recovery. I don't like you in the least, Mr. Gordon, and I can't say I'll be sorry to see you come to a nasty end someday." Loveless shook a finger at him. "While I am acting as your physician, however, I will fulfill that obligation to the best of my ability. Now, your hospitals keep men in bed far too long. You need to move around." He cocked his head to one side, regarding his recalcitrant patient. "Just for ten minutes," he added, as though granting an enormous concession.

 

"All right," Artie said with a sigh. He managed to get to his feet, one arm tucked firmly over his sore ribcage, the other leaning against the armrest of the sofa.

 

"Very good," Loveless said, and turned to leave. At the door he stopped and said, "Ten minutes now, remember? No less, no more!" Gordon made grumbling noises under his breath. Loveless chuckled as he closed the door.

 

Artemus considered lying back down, but the only thing worse than remaining on his feet was facing Loveless' wrath. Besides, it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, once he got used to it. Pushing off from the arm of the sofa and reaching for the nearest chair, he took a few hesitant steps.

 

After five laborious minutes he found himself leaning on a small cherrywood writing desk. His legs informed him that it was time to sit down, and he sank gratefully into the matching chair. A notepad on the desk caught his eye. The top sheet had been torn off carelessly, leaving shreds of paper clinging to the top, as if someone had been writing in a hurry. He picked up the notepad and angled it toward the light. Whoever had written the note had been pressing firmly, leaving indentations in the paper below. Forgetting the ache in his side, Artemus reached for a pencil and, holding it sideways, shaded lightly across the pad. Words in Loveless' handwriting began to appear. He had just finished when he heard footsteps in the corridor. He tore the page off the pad, folded it carefully, and stuffed it in a pocket. He was standing again and shuffling cautiously back to the sofa when Loveless entered the room.

 

The doctor eyed his patient closely. I suppose you can lie down now, Mr. Gordon," he said. "I want you up again this afternoon."

 

"Slave driver," Artemus managed to get out between huffs and puffs. He reached the couch and lowered himself carefully into it. It had never looked so beautiful.

 

Loveless bustled over and took his pulse. "Let me check those bandages." He pushed Artie's shirt aside and inspected the wrappings with a clinical eye. For a horrible moment Artie thought Loveless might detect the folded-up notepad page in his vest pocket, but it went unnoticed.

 

******

 

 

An open door beckoned invitingly. Artemus poked his head in. It was a laboratory, well-equipped as befitted Loveless' usual standards. A dark-haired young man in a white coat turned toward the door as Artemus looked in.

 

"Well, hello, have I seen you before?" The young man had a pleasant smile. He bore a slight resemblance to a Count Sazanov whom Artie had met once, with round eyes and a thin nose in a longish face.

 

"I'm a patient of Dr. Loveless'," Artemus said. "Under orders to get some exercise, so I thought I'd explore a bit."

 

"Wonderful, wonderful. Come right in." Gordon moved gingerly into the room and lowered himself into a chair with a sigh. The scientist continued. "I'm supposed to keep the door locked, but it gets so lonesome in here."

 

"I'm sure it does. I'm Artemus Gordon, by the way."

 

"Albert Wickwire. A pleasure." They shook hands. "Want to see my latest experiment?"

 

Wickwire showed him all over the lab like an eager child showing off a wonderful toyroom. Gordon made some comments and suggestions on the various experiments in progress that earned him Wickwire's respect, and was quickly treated to a rapid scrawl of equations on a blackboard. Sitting back down and looking at it closely, he said slowly, "You've made an alloy that looks exactly like gold with only half the weight."

 

"Isn't it amazing?" his guide agreed.

 

Artemus made a bet with himself. Loveless had probably hired this man for his uncanny combination of brilliance and naivete; he doubted Wickwire was in on Loveless' plot. "Do you know what Dr. Loveless wants to use this for?" he asked gently.

 

Wickwire smiled. "Lots of uses. Lightweight ladies' jewelry that gleams like the real thing. Gold leaf for public buildings--just as nice for half the price! Lots of others. . . ."

 

He trailed off as Gordon shook his head. "I know that Loveless's men have infiltrated the Carson City Mint. My guess is that he's going to use your formula to produce worthless coinage and devalue U.S. currency. He's got someone to pass it through the main inspection, but it needs to look good enough that no one else would notice until it's too late."

 

Wickwire stared at him, aghast. "You mean Dr. Loveless is a criminal?"

 

Gordon nodded. "Many times over."

 

"But he's been so generous to me! And my little girl, Mandy, she adores him!"

 

"He can be very kind to his associates, and he does have a weakness for children. But to everyone else, he's a madman who'll stop at nothing to get what he wants. He once threatened to blow up five thousand people to get the deed to California. Another time he decided to cleanse the earth by inducing everybody to kill each other. At least his latest scheme is a little less deadly, but it will still bring disaster and ruin on many innocent people."

 

Wickwire eyed him suspiciously. "Why should I believe you?"

 

Gordon reached into his pocket and pulled out his Secret Service identification card. He held it out to Wickwire, who frowned at it, then nodded reluctantly. "I guess I can trust you," said the scientist.

 

"I need you to do more than that," said Artemus. "I need you to help me."

 

"Gladly!" said Wickwire. He had recovered his affability. "How can I do that?"

 

Gordon rubbed his hands together, looking around the laboratory. "Do you think between the two of us we could whip up a fast-acting anesthetic gas?"

 

"As a matter of fact," said Wickwire, bustling over to the racks of chemicals in the supply closet, "I have an idea for a new formula. . . . "

 

******

 

 

Antoinette was seated at the harpsichord, a tinkling accompaniment springing from under her agile fingers as she and Miguelito sang together in harmony:

 

_Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee_

_All through the night_

Voltaire sat in a chair nearby, tapping his toes to the gentle rhythm, oblivious to all else. All three were quite unaware of the two conspirators crouched just outside the heavy oaken door. Wickwire was lugging a carefully stoppered beaker full of a swirling pinkish substance; Gordon carried a length of tubing with a nozzle on one end.

 

_Guardian angels God will send thee_

_All through the night_

Moving slowly so as not to upset the beaker or make any detectable sound, the two began connecting the tubing to the beaker and fitting the nozzle to the keyhole of the door.

 

_Soft the drowsy hours are creeping_

_Hill and dale in slumber sleeping_

Wickwire gave a thumb's-up sign and Artemus opened the stopcock on the end of the nozzle. A fine pink mist sprayed through the keyhole into the room where the villainous pair were singing.

 

Antoinette began yawning first, then Loveless joined her. The last two lines of the verse were sung ever more slowly and softly:

 

_I . . . my loved one's watch . . . am keeping_

_All . . . through . . . the . . . night_

On the last sleepy note the pair collapsed together in a musical heap. Voltaire pitched forward from his chair with a resounding thud. Wickwire and Gordon shook hands.

 

******

 

 

West got to the stable at a quarter to eight. It was deserted. He turned to Deke Taylor, the local sheriff, who had agreed to accompany him. "Looks like we'll just have to wait," he said.

 

The sheriff gestured to a partially broken stall, where a couple of broken beams lay across an old pile of hay. "Seems a feller could hide himself back there and keep an eye out," he volunteered.

 

"Why don't we do that, " agreed West, pleased. "We can let them incriminate themselves before we come out and arrest them." The two of them squeezed into the back of the stall behind the debris.

 

Moments later, a group of men came through the door. _Correction_ , thought West, _several men and one woman_. One of the men set a lantern on a barrel in the middle of the room and they all stood around it, glaring at each other with evident distrust. "All right," said the man with the lantern. "I'll handle the introductions. I'm Incuse. This here is Bauer, our inside man at the Mint, and here is his secretary." West looked at the woman; she was middle-aged and matronly, her graying hair drawn into a bun, and clutching an oversized purse. Bauer was younger, thin and nervous. Incuse turned to Bauer and gestured to the other men in turn, giving their names. "Mr. Thomas, Mr. Franks, Mr. Alexander. These are the collectors who are interested in the unique oddities that you are able to offer. You have the goods?"

 

"Er, yes," said Bauer. "They've brought money?"

 

"Of course," said Incuse, clearly irritated with the man's jumpy manner.

 

"All right," Bauer said, reaching into his pocket. "Here are the pieces they asked for." He held out a paper-wrapped parcel to Incuse, who opened it quickly and nodded.

 

"Excellent. Very fine work."

 

"Very fine indeed," said West, rising from his corner and aiming a gun at the party. The sheriff stood behind him, his own weapon drawn as well. The secretary let out a short scream. The three collectors looked at each other and then turned as one to glare at Incuse. "Stay right there. Keep your hands where I can see them. Put down the coins--they're evidence. Mr. Thomas, Mr. Franks, Mr. Alexander--"

 

"Y-yes?" one of the collectors quavered.

 

"Get out of here," West growled.

 

"Yes, SIR!" said another one, and they dashed for the door. West was left with Bauer, his secretary, and Incuse.

 

"Sheriff, I'd like you to arrest these men on charges of illegally removing currency from the Mint and trafficking in stolen goods. There may be further specifications later but I think that these will do for now. Mr. Incuse, for example, may be charged with attempted murder. Keep them locked up until we contact you."

 

The sheriff nodded. "Right you are, Mr. West." He handcuffed the two men and pushed them toward the door, keeping his gun at the ready. "What about her?"

 

West looked at the woman. She was remarkably calm, given the situation, and met his eyes. "I don't know the extent of her involvement," he said. "I tell you what. Take those two down to the station now. I'll question her and bring her along later if circumstances warrant. I'd like to get her story separately from theirs."

 

"Very good," said the sheriff, and left with his two prisoners.

 

West holstered his gun and crossed his arms across his chest. "Now, what can you tell me about all of this?" he said to the woman.

 

The simple question shattered her calm and she began to cry. "I didn't know--I thought something was wrong--but it's not my place--to ask questions," she whimpered between sobs.

 

West felt awkward, torn between comforting a lady and questioning a suspect. "Please calm yourself, ma'am."

 

"I just feel so foolish," she whispered. She dabbed at her eyes with one gloved hand, then opened her purse. "I know I have a handkerchief in here somewhere," she murmured. Then, with a swift motion, she drew a handgun from the purse and pointed it directly at West. "Yes, here it is," she said with a smile, all traces of tears gone from her voice.

 

West put two and two together. "You're Merino, aren't you?" he said.

 

She lifted her chin defiantly. "Yes, I am," she said. "My job is by far the more important. I work in the division that examines and passes the currency as fit to leave the Mint, and I've worked my way up to a position where I can have the final say on any piece. I'm actually the secretary to the chief inspector, and frankly, I've been doing his job for him for years!"

 

"I've known a lot of secretaries like that," West confessed. "In fact," he said, taking a slow step forward, "I've found it to be the rule rather than the exception that such ladies are distinctly undervalued." He took another half-step forward, but halted when she fired at his feet.

 

"And underpaid," she added smoothly, as if the shot had never been fired. "Now I'm afraid I have another job to do, Mr. West." She aimed the gun again, this time at his chest.

 

"I wouldn't do that, Miss Merino," said a voice from behind her.

 

She whirled, and West used the opportunity to leap forward, knock the gun from her hand, and pinion her arms behind her. Keeping a firm grip on her, he looked toward the source of the voice. Silhouetted in the doorframe was Artemus Gordon, next to a slight man West had never seen before. "Hello, Jim," said Artemus with a grin.

 

"Artie!" said West. "Your timing is impeccable as always. Do you feel up to a walk to the local jail?"

 

Gordon considered. "Well, my doctor seems to think I need a little exercise," he said. "On the other hand," he said, leaning against the doorframe for support, "I was thinking of changing doctors. . . ."

 

Wickwire took him by the arm and sat him down on a bench along the near wall. "I'll keep an eye on him till you get back, Mr. West," he offered.

 

West looked questioningly at Gordon. "Go on, Jim," said Artie, leaning his head back against the wall. "You can trust Albert here. I'll be fine." West nodded reluctantly and left.

******

 

 

"Come on, you malingerer," teased West, his firm, gentle grip belying his words as he helped Artie up the stairs to the entrance to the train. "The doctor says you're much better than you have any right to be, thanks to Loveless."

 

"I'm just looking forward to getting home and putting my feet up," gasped Artie. The night in the hospital in White Pond had been helpful; the ten mile coach ride back had not. West opened the door and ushered him in, walking him over to the couch and helping him get settled with some pillows.

 

"Look, Arabella's got a message for us," he said, going over to the cupboard where the pigeon sat patiently. He took the strip of paper from her leg, read it and nodded. "The legal department is sending some men to deal with Merino and Bauer; we'll be called in a few weeks to give evidence and until then, we get a vacation!" He turned and looked at Artie. "Well, actually, you get medical rest leave. I get a vacation."

 

Artie's response, whatever it might have been, was cut off by a knock on the door. West crossed the room and opened it. "Professor Wickwire! Won't you come in?"

 

"Thanks, don't mind if I do." The young scholar came in, carrying an armful of squirming blond toddler. "I'm just on my way to take Mandy out for a walk, and thought I'd stop by and let you know the good news."

 

"What good news, Albert?" asked Artie. The little girl got down and toddled over to Artemus, who smiled and ruffled her hair.

 

"The government was so pleased with my assistance in this case that they're going to set me up in a research lab. I can work on all kinds of discoveries and inventions now! They especially want me to work on explosions. I like explosions. They're putting me in something they call a 'thinktank.'"

 

"You'll love it there," said West with a grin.

 

Mandy marched up to her father. "Walk now!" she ordered.

 

He lifted her in his arms and smiled at the agents. "Duty calls," he said. "Well, I'll be seeing you."

 

"Goodbye, Professor," said West.

 

"Take care," called Artie.

 

West closed the door behind him. "You know, I took a team back to that underground complex while you were in the hospital. We found nothing--no evidence at all that anyone had ever been there. Loveless has done it again. Just vanished into thin air. But Wickwire's made a statement that we can add to the file, along with your description. And one of these days. . . ."

 

"One of these days," Gordon finished, "we'll get him." He looked down at the bandage that still covered his side, and back up at West. "I owe him, Jim."

 

West clapped him on the shoulder. "So do I, Artie. So do I."


End file.
